My Dark Lady
by Hyper Kid
Summary: The love story of Loki and Angrboda, lady of the Iron Wood. Warnings for sex, blood, gore, miscarriage, and child abuse


HK: Part homage to a wonderful woman, part exploration of emotional range, this is probably the best thing I have ever written! It gets a little rushed towards the end, I'm afraid, but even focusing as little as I did there, I was an emotional wreck for three days. And then forgot about the porn and gave this to my 16-year-old cousin. . I never claimed to be stable, but to be fair, I was thinking more about the dead babies than the dicking.

Disclaimer: HK owns…. The next thing to nothing. Only her devotion.

WARNINGS: sex, violence, suggestive themes, gore, miscarriage, child abuse, possibly swearing

Owowowowow

Angrboða was... No, the word was not beautiful. Beauty implied a sort of simplicity, something only skin deep, with nothing more beyond that. Angrboða was not beautiful. She was magnificent. A powerful hagia, a queen in her own right.

Certainly not a woman to bend a knee. And oh, he has always been attracted to strength, in all its forms. Not to say that she wasn't also a fine lady to look at, of course. The giantess was blessed with high cheekbones, a sharp nose, determined jaw, and piercing eyes. With but a look, she could spear you to one spot, those gorgeous eyes raking right through you.

Owo

The first time he went to meet her, as a man, not a mare, he could hardly bring up words. Excitement, arousal, and nerves combined to flatten his tongue. Luckily, Angrboða felt no such qualms. She had paused at a stream, feeling the presence of another magic wielder. Her voice was sharp as a whip, though she didn't bother to turn.

"Yes? And who are you, stopping to stare? You must be aware that you may lose your eyes." Not a moment's hesitation marked her voice, nor any indication that the threat was empty. Startled into motion, Loki jerked forward a step, clearing his throat.

"I could not stop but to admire you, mistress. It is rare to see so great a woman." Loki would know more than any. That prompted a chuckle from Angrboða's throat, and she turned to face him. Her voice become lower, sultry, as she stalked across the clearing towards him like a cat.

"Mistress? Is that what you would have of me? To have me tie you up, beat you, whip your cock until you plead and allow you to lick at my toes when we are done?" She stopped barely an inch from Loki, who couldn't repress a low moan. His eyelashes fluttered for a moment, lost in the delights of her voice, and the giantess laughed, spinning on her heel. "Continue on, boy. There are many women more fit for you to handle."

It was an apt dismissal, but Loki had no intention of obeying. More importantly, it had loosened his tongue.

"And if I wished for a woman I cannot handle? I have travelled far and wide in all the Nine realms, and never have I seen a creature as remarkable as you." A smile sprung to his lips, his voice slipping smoothly from respect to teasing. "How will we know I cannot handle you unless I were to try?"

Those words seemed to stop the lady, and she laughed again, tossing a fall of black hair from her face and glancing over her shoulder at the trickster.

"Have you a name, my impudent little shadow?" She was no longer leaving, but nor was she returning. Loki decided to play the chance. It was not so great a risk as it would soon become.

"I am Loki, son of Laufey, should it please you." His words remained cheeky, teasing, but it seemed that it would please her. Her expression changed, switching to speculative as she looked him over.

"The stallion's mother?" She asked, returning once more to stand eye to eye with him. At his full eight feet in height, Loki was barely an inch shorter than the giantess. He found that he liked the feeling.

Without warning, Angrboða's hand flew out and brushed the front of his trousers, caressing the hardening shape of his cock. "And what are you, then, under these leathers? Are you man or woman?" Her tone betrayed only curiosity, an interest that could almost distract Loki from her hand on his shaft.

It made him hopeful, if little else. His lids fluttered again, his head tipping back slightly at the feeling, but he managed to answer.

"I am both, and neither. Whichever would serve." He was well aware of the preferences in some realms, which would consider him abomination, or half-man at best. But that was not the case in Jötunheim. Angrboða watched him, her own head tipped back a little to allow deep green eyes to examine his features more closely.

"Both would suit me well, I believe. I have little preference in the arms of a lover. And how would I measure up to the stallion that bred you?" She gave a gentle squeeze that almost brought Loki to his knees, panting with desire. His own eyes were bright, pupils blown wide with lust. But he could have only one answer to her question.

"How am I to know, if I have not had you?" There was a somewhat ragged edge to his voice, but there was laughter there too. She returns the laughter, giving him another squeeze and stepping in closer.

"How indeed, little shifter?" She steps away, and as he watches her, her lean, muscled body not hugely curvaceous, her clothing too loose and thick to betray more than the slightest push of breast and buttock against the fabric. And yet... He has seen nothing more desirable in all the Nine.

Even Freya's ample bosom, displayed in fine silks that he knows from experience parts like a whisper of a river running down his skin, cannot compare to her. What can he do? He follows the hagia home.

Owo

Never a woman to be conquered, nor to be questioned, the Iron Wood had very little to say about the arrival of Angrboða's new consort. At first, mere curiosity held between them. Loki was delighted to use the full range of his shape changing talents in that first night of passion, and more pleased still when Angrboða was equal to each form.

The hagia had magics of her own, including the power to change her form. For days, weeks, they tangled as she saw fit, romping in their first forms, tumbling to the floor in shapes each chose to please the other, roamed the woods in the forms of bird, wolf, bear, led a hunt of the great multi-horned stags of the wood.

The other giants of Angrboða's fiefdom were not hugely friendly, nor any more willing to coddle weakness, insecurity, hesitance, than their hagia. Yet they were a hospitable people, and soon Loki had won himself a position of respect in their ranks.

In that chill wood every one of his talents were appreciated, and he found a warmer reception than any he had in Asgarð.

Owo

There was very little ceremony when Angrboða named him as her consort; she simply declared her intention before her council. The hagia was not one for pomp and circumstance, even if the traditions of her land demanded them.

Loki watched with no small trace of amusement as the council argued with her, insisting that his ascent to her side (even if he would still hold a lesser rank than the council in any decisions), was a great event. It was a great responsibility, and for his new position to be recognized, the people would desire a celebration.

Fortunately for all involved, Angrboða's disinterest in ceremony extended to even debating it, and after very little time she waved the whole matter off.

"Then organize what you will. But make it quick. I would have it done by nightfall." There was not a trace of room to negotiate in her voice, and it was a sign of how incredibly respected the lady was that not a voice rose in incredulity or argument.

Instead the council dispersed; there was going to be a ~lot~ of hurried discussion of which parts of the old ceremony to claim a consort could be trimmed and cut back in time for nightfall. As the councillors exited the great round room, built into the trunk of a still-living tree and sustained solely by the hagia's magic, she drew Loki into his arms, a frown of exasperation curling her lips. "Such a tiresome knot of spells and foolishness."

Loki knew her well enough now to know how far he could go, and that only he could get away with what he did next. He planted a fleeting kiss on her lips, his present form a tall, lithe young man with long red hair braided in the fashion of the wood.

"Let them have their flourishes. All I wish is to stand at your side, and have all the realm know that I am yours." A wicked smile crossed his lips, at that time free of the scars they would later bear. "And to have you claim me before them all." He nuzzled along her jawline, feeling more than seeing her own smile creep on, her hands sinking to his hips to squeeze them.

"Yes... I had almost forgotten. I suppose there could be some benefits to this whole mess after all." Whilst ~technically~ the idea was no longer considered traditional, Angrboða herself had an imp of mischief in her.

Her councillors insisted on a ceremony. She may as well take advantage of the time to please herself, and satisfy the desires of her lusty consort. It was unlikely that the people would object.

It wasn't actually hugely likely that they would even be surprised. Guiding her lips back to his, she nipped them gently. "You will have to be ready. You must look worthy of me, after all." A wry amusement filled those words, with the acknowledgement that Loki, far more than she, had a great fondness for showing off.

Taking a step back, the trickster did a slow spin, his hands spread as if to showcase his form.

"Will this not suit, my lady?" Amusement laced his voice and sparkled in his eyes, and Angrboða laughed.

"Aye, it will suit me well enough. But first we had best tousle you up." A rare note of playfulness crept in then, and with an answering bark of laughter Loki "fled", his giantess in hot pursuit.

Owo

If there was one thing that everybody could agree on, it was that a feast would be a strong requirement for the claiming celebration. It gave the hagia a wonderful excuse to leave the city, to take to the forests in the skin of a wolf, and bring her consort to give chase.

The two streaked side by side through the frosted wood, easily outpacing the rest of the hunting party. The lady took the lead, easily sifting through the scents in the air to select a strong, young musk ox. Mere wolves would seek out the old, the sick, keeping the herd lean and strong.

But this was ceremony, and Loki had much to prove if he was to be worthy of her. She led him onwards, to the clearing where the oxen mulled about, stamping and lowing a warning to each other and the encroaching shifters.

There, Angrboða drew back, allowing Loki to take the lead. He stalked forward, the faintest breeze ruffling his russet fur. They had approached from downwind, but the beasts of the Iron Wood had senses almost unique to the Nine. They may not have known where the shifters were precisely, but they could sense the magic, knew that these were not normal wolves that could be chased off.

Slowly, cautiously, he approached, golden eyes flicking from horn tip to horn tip. To feed the kingdom they would need at least three great beasts, but he need bring down only one. He made it within leaping distance, the rest of the pack spreading out to ring the herd, before a cow tossed her head and caught sight of him.

She screamed and charged, putting herself between him and her calf, but Loki had already sprung, locking his jaws around the throat of a powerful bull. Taking their cues from him, three more wolves dashed through the herd, scattering oxen in all directions.

The rest of the pack moved into action, targeting members which split from the rest, three or four to a beast. Only Angrboða moved to back Loki up, though she remained to one side.

Usually she enjoyed the kill as much as he did, but even though she disdained of ceremony, she understood its importance. Loki had to contribute to this feast, to prove his worth. And he was certainly eager to do so, even as the bull reared and bucked, trying to throw him off.

Judging its movements, Loki waited until it threw itself up again, and changed. For an instant, he used slender fingers to maintain his grip, then swung himself around under the bull's neck. The beast didn't seem to notice immediately, and by the time it did, Loki was on its back, his form once again shifting.

This time long, slender claws sunk deep into the creature's back, ripping and tearing the thick muscles as Loki shrank, scales sprouting over his limbs now as he became a creature between a Komodo dragon and the real thing.

He stretched his jaws wide, sinking venomous fangs into the back of the ox's neck. The creature bucked again, bellowing, and Loki changed again, retaking a jötunn form and rolling back along the beast's spine, springing clear. The bull was bleeding heavily now, and stomped the frosted ground as it turned to find its attacker.

Loki landed lightly, fingers sprawled on the ground and one leg extended away to balance him. He barely even thought about it, shifting once more into the large, powerful russet wolf before charging again, feinting and barely dodging a swipe by gleaming horns. He rolled away from sharp hooves, swiping claws and severing the tendons to one thick hind leg.

The bull bellowed, its own weight crushing the damaged limb, but still shuddering to hold itself up on its three legs. It was far from harmless, and hot puffs of breath fogged the air as it turned small, pain-maddened eyes on the shape shifter. It screamed now, the noise sharp and rending the air, cutting across the snarls, growls, and bellows of the other battles all around.

Most of the herd had fled the clearing, but a calf and two cows had been separated away. The cows were increasingly frantic, but the calf had not proved much of a challenge to bring down. Without its' cries, the cows almost settled somewhat, now faced only with their own survival. Both looked around at the bull's call, but Loki could not pay them any mind.

He was not cruel, and fully intended to end the beast's pain quickly.

Already his venom was flowing through its veins, numbing limbs with every beat of the great bull's heart. Its' second scream was lower, quieter, as blood loss and venom took their toll. With a great groan, it flumped to the ground, but still tossed its' head angrily.

Loki stalked the fallen beast, watching for an opportunity for his last strike. The ox was slowing, and it wasn't long before he dived in once more, teeth tearing through the flesh at the front of the ox's throat. The neck was too thick for him to hope to snap in a wolf's skin, but even through the matted hair he felt the spurt of hot blood as he severed an artery.

The bull shuddered and Loki backed off, Angrboða moving up to stand beside him. She licked blood from his muzzle as the beast groaned one last time and finally succumbed to its' wounds. He nuzzled her back, a low, affectionate noise rumbling in his chest even as he panted. The fight had cost him, but he felt triumphant. He had proven himself to the clan before, provided for them in the hunt, but this... This was more official.

Owo

All four oxen were taken down come the finish, and the giants regained their true forms in order to drag them back to the city. Whilst the beasts were jointed and skinned, Angrboða swept Loki away and into her private chambers.

Although she had not made a kill herself, the thrill of the hunt had her blood up, and she waited hardly a moment before throwing her consort against the wall and kissing him fiercely. He was only too eager to respond, his hands roaming over her body and down, cupping her waist to pull her more firmly against him.

The hagia growled playfully and bit down, drawing blood from her trickster's lower lip. He laughed in return, grateful that neither had bothered to clothe themselves when returning from their animal forms. He tumbled sideways to the floor, tugging her down with him and utterly unsurprised when she rolled with him to land atop, straddling him and pinning his wrists above his head.

"You would bring your lady down?" She asked, leaning in so that her lips brushed his throat as she growled the question. He bucked his hips up into hers, eyes full of teasing light.

"Only that she may bring me low in return." He purred, tossing his head back to afford her more access. She nipped and sucked marks along his neck, grinding her molten centre down against him. The heat and wetness of her gliding over his shaft brought a moan to the trickster's lips and he squirmed, arms jerking in her unrelenting grip.

She laughed harshly, transferring both his wrists to the grip of one hand, reaching down with the other to grip his already hardening length. She stroked him slowly, rubbing her thumb along the head, collecting precum already beading there and then pressing her thumb to his lips.

He sucked it in eagerly, laving the digit with his tongue and she laughed again, a low, feral sound before she leaned forward and claimed his mouth with hers. That slender, strong hand slipped down again, stroking him a few more times before holding him in position and raising herself up, guiding the tip of his cock into position against her hot entrance.

She sank down firmly, growling again as she felt him stretch and fill her. Loki groaned at the sensation, totally claimed as her pussy clenched around him, taking him as though he had been made for her.

In a few ways, this body was, styled explicitly for her tastes and pleasures and it pleased the hagia greatly as she watched him writhe on the floor, adjusting to the new stretch.

Just when he seemed to be regaining control, she rolled her hips, flexing those silken internal walls and taking him apart again. Slowly, gradually, she began to speed up, raising and lowering herself just a little more each time, pleasure tingling along her nerves as she used him, rubbing over those sensitive spots inside her like a favoured toy.

He squirmed beneath her and pressed up once more, trying to sink still deeper into her. The connection was almost electric, and Angrboða wrenched herself away from his lips to spit a word of power into air that crackled at the sound of it. Loki screamed now, his back bowing even beneath her firm grip, as a wave of the hagia's power pressed at his most intimate places.

A large, thick head pressed oh so slowly against his own entrance, lubed by glands not found in any pure male, as Angrboða continued to ride him. In contrast to her increasingly fast and brutal movements on his cock, though, she continued to fuck him in tiny, incremental movements.

The trickster squirmed, writhed beneath her, his breath coming in sharp pants as she pressed that magic-created cock against his prostate, grinding her own clitoris along his shaft. Loki keened, pleasure building in him almost past what he could bear. Angrboða responded with a vicious little chuckle, clenching her own muscles around him as she chased her own ecstasy.

She held back a little... she had every intention of watching her new consort come undone beneath her hands. He tried his best to hold out, to pleasure her, but in this ancient game Angrboða was queen. She had a will of steel and an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of her lover's body, and how best to undo him.

Soon he could resist no more, hips bucking up, up, into her as he shot her full of his seed. An ecstatic cry, half way between moan and scream, ripped apart his throat. His she-wolf was utterly unrelenting and continued to ride his throbbing cock until he collapsed, spent and all but shaking, beneath her.

Only then did she raise herself slowly from his sticky shaft (though the mystic cock remained firmly within him) and proffered her messy, dripping sex to his lips. He responded willingly, pursing those lips in a soft kiss, before allowing them to part and have his tongue plunder her.

She rode his face now, one hand clutched firmly in his hair at the back of his skull, holding his face to her pussy as he licked and sucked. Loki went to work with every art he knew, curling his tongue to thrust into her in one instant, suckling at her clitoris like an infant on the breast the next.

It did not take the silver-tongue long to have her following him over the most blissful peak, and as her head fell back in the throws of orgasm, he drank down every drop she offered him, and sucked his own cum from her pussy. As her grip slackened in his hair, he gripped her hips lovingly, firmly in both hands, holding her in place until he had thoroughly cleaned her and she was gasping in contentment.

Owo

When the time came, Angrboða herself shunned tradition, banishing the servants from Loki's quarters to dress him herself for the banquet. The trickster leaned back against her, his eyes closing in contentment as her strong fingers ran through his hair, parting it and twining it neatly into an elaborate series of loops and braids.

He was still as naked as the day he was born, as indeed was she, but there was nothing erotic to the act. Dimly he became aware that she had asked him a question, and let out a sleepy interrogative hum. Angrboða laughed softly, giving a gentle tug to the length of ref hair she held in her fingers.

"Have I worn you out, little shifter?" Her voice was far softer, warmer, more affectionate than most of her subjects would ever hear it. He cracked open his eyes, tilting his head back to meet her sharp gaze with his own.

"Simply trying to recoup my stamina, milady. How may I serve you?" His lips curled in a salacious smile which made her bop him on the head.

"None of that now, we must prepare you for this blasted feast. I asked what colours you would like, for your headdress." The elegant weave of gold and gems was centuries old, and would be expertly woven into the braids and twists Angrboða now styled. Loki's brow furrowed, his eyes glancing over to the headdress where it sat on a side table.

"You would change it for me?" He looked back up, a perplexed frown on his lips. Angrboða smiled down at him, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

"Of course. I would have you happy, here." The words were simple enough, but the pure honesty of them almost brought tears to the trickster's eyes. He straightened, ostensibly to make Angrboða's job easier, but truly more to conceal his response. It didn't matter; none knew him better than the hagia.

Owo

The claiming feast was an event to be remembered, and would be talked about in the Wood for centuries to come. Loki's headdress was a gleaming tangle of brilliant gold and onyx, matching Angrboða's own, and the collar extended from his throat, down and across his chest, glittering with the same dark light.

He stood at her side, clad in ornamentation and firelight, tall and proud. Priests said the sacred words, once hungers had been satisfied, and as the last words rang through the silent wood, Angrboða turned and tugged her consort into a dominating kiss, and threw him down upon the table to fulfil a hunger of a different kind.

There was some small stir, as the claiming had not been in the meeting hall in many an age (though the tradition of witnesses still stood). Angrboða didn't bother to explain herself, or waste words on her subjects as she divested her trickster of his clothes once more. For a moment, the only sounds were the gasping breaths of the trickster, and a few moans, but the Iron Wood was used to its unconventional hagia, and soon there was bawdy commentary.

Angrboða smiled, her lips a sinuous curve against the sweaty skin of Loki's throat before sucking another mark, one of the trickster's hands curling in her hair, the other on her ass. Though there was no official invitation, it was not so long before a couple had joined the leading pair, then another, and another, as those less interested or desiring privacy made themselves scarce.

The lovemaking continued into the night, with Loki and Angrboða at the head of it all. It would take far more than his giantess's lips upon him to blind Loki to the incredible power rising in the Wood, and as she tossed her hair back and moved astride him, he knew that she felt it too.

Her dark eyes were alight with a magical fire, sparks trailing behind her fingers as she raked them down his chest. The trickster gasped, and a wicked smile took over her lips. Their lips met once more, accompanied by a thunder clap, and Loki gave himself entirely to her spell working and the passion, the power, surrounding them.

They would conceive their first child on that night.

Owo

Anyone damn fool enough to believe that Angrboða would be somehow moderated, made milder by her pregnancy, would soon see the error of their ways. The hagia knew from the first day that their child formed, their genes combining.

When Loki awoke the next morning, in her bed, it was to the sight of her hands resting on her stomach, her eyes contemplative. It didn't take a particularly sharp mind to put two and two together, and he rolled over to place his own hand on her stomach, below hers.

"A son or a daughter?" He murmured, only his soft voice breaking the still silence between them. She glanced over at him, her eyes unreadable, and a gentle smile crossed his lips. "Or somewhere in between?" At that, a rare, tender smile spread across the giantess's mouth and she leaned down to kiss him softly.

"A son, my love." Loki returned the kiss, then leaned down to place a kiss on her stomach too.

"Hello, my son... welcome to the world."

Owo

They didn't bother to conceal the good news, and so Loki's claiming feast was followed the next day by another, the conception of the hagia's first heir. In other peoples, such early celebration would be risky, as a plethora of unknown factors could prevent that tiny pair of cells from forming into a true baby.

But Angrboða was no ordinary woman, and her powerful magic would protect the forming mass until it became a child, should she wish for it. There was no suggestion that she should step down, or take on lesser duties; none would have dared.

She remained haughty, regal, and domineering, even as her belly swelled, and she continued to lead the hunt until her stomach was too large for her to run easily. In deference to her, Loki then took over, eager to prove himself more to her now than her people, and to provide for their growing son.

Being kept from the exercise and relief of the hunt, the hagia became more ill tempered, as the hormones and strain of the pregnancy went unrelieved. The other lands of Jötunnheim began to send fewer and fewer envoys, and were careful always to bring only the most difficult cases of justice to her attentions.

Over the nine months that followed, even the mention of Angrboða's name was enough to settle all but the most grievous offences, as her acerbic tongue flayed any foolish enough to bring their arguments before her.

Loki was no more immune to her temper than any other, but only he continued to act as normal around her. Whilst others walked on tip toe and spoke only in whispers, he danced and told bawdy jokes for her amusement.

On her worse days she was as likely to try to curse him as she was to laugh, but even then he responded light heartedly, feigning fatal injury and flopping to the ground at her feet, begging forgiveness in the guise of a dog or a cat. More often than not, his theatrics could bring a quirk of amusement to her lips, even if it was followed by an order to leave her sight.

He would never leave her side for long, though, and took on as many duties as she decided did not demean him on that day.

He washed her hair, massaged her feet, fed her meals by hand, and all the while he sung gentle songs and told stories to his lady and the forming child inside her. And though even in private Angrboða was brusque and abrupt with him, he knew that she appreciated it.

Any harsh words were soothed with soft touches, any flung curses given the balm of her healing songs. He would endure it all and more for her, knowing as he did the trials of pregnancy. There were no words for the gratitude he felt, not only that she desired, and indeed insisted upon carrying his child, but that she had even wished for his company at all.

In the Iron Wood he was accepted, respected, and, as he had never been before, he was loved. There was none of the backhanded appreciation of Asgarð, where the unsaid rider of every bit of praise reminded him that he was welcome ~as long as~. As long as he behaved. As long as he did nothing too outlandish. As long as he pretended to be nothing but a man.

Until he found the true company of his peers, he could not even imagine how much that combination of judgement and suppression had begun to weigh on him. In the Iron Wood, he was free to wear whatever shape he pleased, expected to use his magic however he wished, and not only in the face of difficulty.

For that freedom, he would bend a knee, kiss Angrboða's toes, serve her as a slave. And yet all she asked from him was his love.

Owo

It came as a surprise to no one in the Wood that the child of two shapeshifters did not come in a jötun form. Their firstborn, Fenrir, pushed his mother into her wolf form for the latter half of the pregnancy, and through the delivery itself. With that in mind, those who hadn't spoken to the hagia directly speculated about the possibility of a litter, but Fenrir was one alone.

He was born no larger than any wolf pup, and as he suckled at his mother's side, his father shifted into a wolf's skin and curled himself around them both. Over the next few weeks, Angrboða shifted back into her preferred jötun form when the child was weaned. It took more time than that for people to realise that the young prince was not about to slow down in his growing.

His mother kept him at her side, the hagia's duties sliding easily alongside her new duty as a mother. Being a son, Fenrir could not succeed her in her role in the wood, but he still needed to be taught the ways.

Loki stepped in here, giving himself over as much and in as many ways as Angrboða would allow him. He played with the boy, teaching him and keeping him quiet whilst Angrboða dealt with the business of the realm. Fenrir was a curious child, sniffing at any who came into reach, and giving most things a delicate taste with his tongue.

Loki indulged him fondly, doting on his first child with the care and attention only the most loving can bestow. Angrboða was sterner, harsh as her position commanded her to be, and enforcing the rules for their son.

Still, she had a gentle hand, and always ensured that young Fenrir could understand why he was being punished. For his part, Fen was devoted to his parents. His father's playful ways seemed magnified in the son, and as he grew older he would shuffle along on his belly at court, lightly nipping or huffing on the ankles of supplicants in jest.

Some may have been annoyed, but all were careful to hide their disapproval of the young beast. Angrboða herself was the only one of a position to show it, and should anyone else raise hand or voice to her son she was utterly merciless. Motherhood far from softened her; if anything, it made her resolute, relentless, unstoppable.

Owo

As would only be expected from their relative positions, Angrboða decided when next they would have another child. Fenrir was growing rapidly, bigger almost every other day. Still, the Iron Wood was experiencing a time of great peace and prosperity.

The cannier politicians of the realm observed the hagia's temperament very closely, and with the combination of consort and son she seemed, if not traditionally feminine and gentle, happy. Her pride with Fenrir's development (both physical and mental) were almost palpable.

It left an opening for wise alliances, and careful trade agreements to be expanded. Soon even betrothal offers were coming through for the young wolf, but on this both parents were adamant; no one would force Fenrir into a match.

It was an unpopular move, and rare for the time, as whilst he could not be Angrboða's heir, he was a highly esteemed member of Jötunheim's nobility. He was, as one may say, a catch.

But Loki would have no nets, no silken bonds of oaths and promises for his son.

Their second child, Jörmungandr, came as the whole realm seemed to settle. If Angrboða was disappointed to produce another son (as the painfully bold traditionalists insisted she should be), none could see it.

She carried her serpent in a jötun's skin this time, as it was beyond even her powers to lay an egg.

As ferocious as she had been with Fenrir, now she was broody, prey to long sulks and bouts of melancholy. Again, only Loki dared to rouse her from these moods, coaxing their young son (who could not fathom his mother's sudden change of temperament) to come and curl up with his mother.

After a fashion, she was more passive now, more akin to a queen of other realms than the Iron Wood's stone cold hagia. She allowed Loki to hold and soothe her, and to pass on her words when she did not deign to speak to any outside her family.

This pregnancy was short, as snakes develop very quickly, and the birth was relatively simple.

With no shoulders to pass, once his head had cleared Jör slipped out easily, coiling around his mother's ankles.

Loki scooped him up gently, cleaning blood and afterbirth from his new son. He did not bother to praise Angrboða, as the exhausted giantess would likely curse him for any words she deemed trite or hollow, and instead cooed and murmured to the boy as he gently wiped mess from those sleek, blue-black scales.

Jörmungandr, like Fenrir, seemed to understand his parents almost from the outset, and when the boys were introduced Fenrir sniffed his new baby brother very attentively.

There was some tension amongst the attendant servants and advisors, as the two were so different it was hard to conceive that they did in fact share blood; what if Fenrir resented the new intrusion?

But Fenrir was his mother's son, and even at a scant few years of age he understood duty. He gave his younger brother a thorough licking to clean him (much to Jör's bemused distaste) and curled himself around his serpentine sibling. The two were nigh on inseparable, and no father in all Nine realms could have been more proud.

Owo

All seemed blissfully happy, until their third child was conceived. Loki simply could not imagine that the Allfather didn't know where he had been in this long absence; he did not think the man a fool.

No, he believed that after his most recent miseries in Asgarð, his blood brother had quietly accepted his unhappiness, and let him go to seek a better home.

Few in the Iron Wood ever troubled themselves about the Æsir; their home was deep in Jötunheim, and a well respected, powerful home at that. Indeed, Loki still held small bonds of kinship to the place, and Angrboða respected that they had been his family before.

At this time, the Iron Wood was poised to become an ally, as soon as any messenger from Asgarð arrived.

Owo

No messenger came, but there was a message.

Owo

Angrboða loved all of their children dearly and with a fierce, protective passion. When finally she conceived an heir, she did not show any outward signs of joy; their sons were not neglected, and indeed she hardly bothered to mention the baby's gender to any bar Loki himself.

There was no pride, no relief in finally doing her "task". All there was was a very quiet satisfaction.

She had two wonderful sons, strong and eager, both now old enough to be excited by gaining a sister. She had a consort who was well respected by all, and had proved both his cunning and his kindness on many an occasion. And now, she would have a daughter.

A young woman of jötun form, though it was likely she would be a shapeshifter like her parents.

Perhaps either brother would be jealous; neither could shift between more than two skins.

However, this was not unusual. In the Iron Wood even more than the rest of the realms, strength passed down the female line. Had Loki truly been a man, he would have been somewhat of an aberration.

Instead, what the Æsir deemed his curse at worst and a misfortune at best was, in Jötunheim, a blessing.

Loki was a true shape changer, as fluid as they came, comfortable in any skin and any gender.

Even Angrboða herself preferred to remain in female form, despite her species (was this to do with her status in the realm, or simply the matriarchal nature of the Wood itself? It would be impossible to say, for the lady rarely bothered with what she would deem pointless questions).

So even though Angrboða did not bother to raise a hue and cry any more than she had when she bore her sons, soon the whole Wood and the lands around were buzzing with rumours of the powerful hagia's developing heir. No one doubted that she was to be as powerful as her mother and father combined; Angrboða's line had always bred well. The boys were proof enough of that.

Owo

If only that news had stayed in Jötunheim.

Owo

In later centuries, when he was more aware of Odin's paranoid devotion to prophecy, Loki became coldly certain that Hel's conception was what had tipped the old man's hand.

He alone knew at that time, what Loki was "fated" to become. He feared the power of the giants, and feared more than anything that Angrboða would have a child to pass her realm to, to be more powerful than even the intimidating hagia.

Was there guilt?

Of course. He had sworn an oath of kinship, to see all Loki's children as his nieces and nephews. The old Ás' heart was not stone cold.

But he persuaded himself, from that cast iron core which all his worst decisions came from, that ruthless centre which valued only the health and continuation of his own line, that he was doing his blood brother a favour.

If Angrboða never conceived an heir, his position would never dwindle. Surely Loki would be happier as consort, with a wonderful wife and strong, brave sons (for in Asgarð, it was the sons who took primacy, and for all his wisdom Odin could not conceive of the opposite).

That Fenrir grew larger, more terrifying, by the day was not in the old god's head at this time. It is not easy to face one's own death. No, he convinced himself that if Hel died in the womb, the relationship between himself and Loki could only grow.

In their loss of a child, surely the trickster would seek out family, return to Asgarð in misery to be consoled. Odin was too proud - and his people too touchy - to send a first emissary, but if the trickster returned they could turn the Wood from enemy to ally. Of course Loki could never know what he had done. Babes died, even those with the strongest mothers. There would be no reason for suspicion. And so the Allfather cast a curse.

Owo

Angrboða felt in an instant that something was wrong. It was a day like any other, and she in the later stages of her pregnancy. It was a good day, and so she sat in court, listening to supplicants for justice.

A farmer was laying out a grievance against his landlord when the curse struck. Abruptly, Angrboða screamed, that unflappable persona shattered to dust as pain struck deep in her belly. The room fell silent as the grave. None knew what to do, what had happened. Another scream, louder, longer, filling with rage as well as pain, broke the spell. In a heartbeat Loki moved from behind the throne to kneel at her feet, clutching her hands.

"What is it? What's wrong?" His voice was urgent, filled with fear for his wife. That anyone might be attacking the child never even came to mind, until Angrboða raised her head, blood staining her teeth and dripping from a bitten lip. She spat her next words, hand clenching in Loki's almost to break bones.

"Our daughter." In almost less time than the words took to speak, the hall had been cleared, the greatest volva and midwives summoned, and for a moment the two were alone.

Fear like he had never known sank in Loki's chest, a monstrous ball of stone.

Their child was in danger.

It was a terror he had never known before, but one he would become accustomed to. For a heartbeat, he was frozen, with no idea what to do.

Then Angrboða redoubled her grip, and the pain brought him back to himself. He wrenched his hand away, though something in his self throbbed at the loss of comfort, and splayed both hands across her belly, muttering runes and enchantments. By the time the midwives arrived, he had discovered the curse, if not its origin.

"They are trying to kill the child," he explained hurriedly, and heard a sound that made his heart stop. A single sob, more broken and frail than any sound he had ever heard the hagia make, a more desperate sound than he could even imagine from her lips, rent the air.

Far from his horror, the nurses and volva, old even in Bor's time, and who had known Angrboða since her birth, were spurred into action.

They brushed Loki away as a fly and surrounded their leader, moving her carefully from the throne to a bed made of tree roots and cushions, drawn from their great living hall itself by almost unimaginable power.

The midwives took her legs and pelvis, the volva clustered around her head and belly, and it was all Loki could do to take her hand again. He dared not speak, to interrupt their concentration when that alone may doom their child, and far more importantly, his wife.

The baby, whom he loved with all his heart, was not yet born. Angrboða was his world. Life without her could not be imagined. Yet even then he did not make the selfish wish, that the baby should die if only his wife would survive. He knew her heart, knew that if any in the realms could withstand such a curse that even touching it had blackened his fingers, it would be her.

He had to believe that both would live. Anything else wrote a death warrant.

Owo

In a matter of minutes, the midwives warned that, premature or not, the baby must be expelled. The curse was tied to Angrboða herself, her womb as a focus, for even a powerful curse needs something of the victim to wreak its full havoc.

Born, there was a slight chance that the baby would live.

They did not bother to consult the hagia, only the volva, who agreed at once and began weaving such spells as they could.

Three surrounded Angrboða's head, feeding her all the strength that they could, and wrapping her in their own magic. Four laid hands on her belly, feeding energy to the child and searching for ways to break the awful curse. One rested a hand on her mound, loosening muscle and bone and pushing unready muscles into labour.

Angrboða's screams now shook the chamber, and in them was a horrible hint of loss. She feared that she would never hold her daughter in her arms. Her first failure, in a life of success upon success.

owo

The child came quickly, but when they saw why none were glad of it. Already half of the baby's body, along the right of the central line, was blackened and dying. Their tiny girl, their premature baby was not breathing. The clusters of workers switched then, the midwives tending to Angrboða whilst the volva surrounded the infant, doing their all to save her.

Those heartwrending shrieks had finally ceased, and the only sound but for the muttering of the volva was the hagia's hoarse, wheezing gasps of breath.

Instead of the joy and pride he had been expecting at his daughter's birth, a moment which should surely have been his greatest triumph, all he could feel was fear. The child was so small, and withered as a flower caught in vicious frost. She was not moving.

Owo

The volva worked without pause for almost an hour, and at each instant Loki half expected to hear the wail of a first breath. But time passed, and still no sound came. The previously pale, perfect half of the child began to turn blue, devoid of life giving air.

When the oldest, the wisest of the volva raised her head, she did not need to speak. For Loki, the whole world dropped away. He was frozen, shocked. This simply ~could not be~.

He didn't feel his grip on Angrboða's hand slacken, nor hers redouble on his. His focus narrowed down to the tiny, shrivelled body laying in the tree's cradle. For a moment he thought he would die with her.

Owo

Angrboða saved him. Saved them both. Though her lungs were already screamed raw, her throat red and swollen with her fear and pain, it was all as nothing to this.

This was a roar of rage, a bellow of denial that could be heard throughout the realms.

She flung out an arm, undeniable as a comet, unstoppable as the drift of continents. Time sped up again, the whole realm quaking to the hagia's call as she willed, practically forced, her daughter to live.

The first cry was soft, weak, lost in the echoes of Angrboða's demand for life. The second was stronger, as everyone froze to listen. Gradually the blue faded as the baby girl began to squirm. Those soft puffs of breath were the only sound in the hall, and Loki hardly dared to breathe himself, for fear that he would interrupt her and stop the tiny noise.

Carefully, reverentially the baby was lifted and placed upon her mother's breast. Angrboða held her as though her daughter was made of glass, her entire being focused on the life in her arms. She did not allow herself to relax, nor to release the power built up around her.

Now, with the first step done, she could add finesse, murmuring spells and incantations over the baby, strengthening each of her organs in turn, and nurturing that fierce little spark of life. The strain of that first breath seemed to have tired Hel, and soon she dropped asleep again.

The rise and fall of a tiny chest had never been more closely observed.

After hours of intense spellwork, Angrboða surrendered the child to the volva, who began to weave their own crafts around her small form. The hagia was weak with exertion, both from the curse and the drawing of her own power.

She all but fell back into Loki's arms as the child was dressed, warmed, and finally the full range of the damage could be assessed. He cradled her to his heart, his bride, his most beloved, tears streaming freely from his eyes into her hair.

Never had he loved her more, nor revered her.

She was strong even when he quailed, a force of nature akin to the volcanoes of Muspelheim themselves. At that time, he could hardly imagine how anything could stop her.

Owo

It would take almost a month before the full effects of the curse became visible.

It was agreed that none who had not been in the room for the birth should know that Hel survived. Someone already hated the child enough to try and kill her before she was born, and if they knew they had failed they would certainly try again.

Her brothers were both young enough that they might be tricked into indiscretion, so they remained in the family's chambers alongside Angrboða, nominally in mourning for their lost sister.

Loki was their sole point of outside contact but for the volva who watched over Hel.

She slept a lot in the first month, as although she was not very premature, even without the curse she had not managed to develop fully. But at the end of that month, Loki dared to mention something he had noticed.

"She... she isn't healing." The black, withered half of her body remained shrivelled, although it seemed that she could move it without pain now. It was not only that which troubled him, but he was still denying that other worry.

Angrboða's response was an abrupt nod, her tone clipped with anger.

"Her magic has gone." This answer was certainly not what was expected, and for a moment he was struck dumb. Angrboða didn't bother waiting for a response. "Her life returned, but she has lost her magic."

Once again, Loki had the impression of lava bubbling below the surface, a pool of rage looking for an escape. For a moment, even he was afraid. The moment passed, and the trickster found his silver tongue.

"Is there anything we can do for her?" The tone more than the words themselves soothed her; it was low, soft, knowing the answer but still sincere. It reminded her that this was her Loki, her consort, her love. That this was neither solely her problem, nor her trial. They would carry this burden together.

She drew in a slow, deep breath.

"I will still raise her to be my heir. I will teach her the ways of the hagia, and the magic unique to the Wood. She may learn suitable spells to shift her form." It was a somewhat begrudging answer. Very rarely had she seen a challenge that she was not certain she could overcome.

And this child, the daughter who should have been an indomitable ruler, to see her brought to where she would need incantations and spell work to do what should have been as natural to her as breathing... A red hot rage still burned in the giantess, demanding justice for her baby. But she could not worry about that now; now, all that mattered was that Hel was kept alive and well.

Owo

As she grew, Hel's dead half grew with her, remaining proportional but shrivelled. It didn't seem to worry her overmuch; she had never known anything different.

She was a bright, intelligent child, always excited to run after her brothers, play with her father, take lessons from her mother. Even without the power she should have been born with, she was a very quick student.

After only a few weeks of training, she was already using her newly learned spells outside of lessons, exploring and playing the living energies of the Wood. Loki was so proud of her that he felt his heart would burst with it, though he couldn't fight the tinge of sadness.

All of that potential, the magnificent young woman she may now never become... he knew Angrboða saw her too. The lady was less firm with Hel, less strict, and if she didn't treat the girl as though she was some fragile, delicate thing, the memory of almost losing her remained permanently etched in the hagia's eyes.

Her brothers, little more than children themselves, understood. Both had heard their mother's screams during the birthing, and neither would effort forget the tense, fearful weeks that followed.

Young as they were, neither had a dash of their mother's political restraint; Fenrir appointed himself Hel's guardian, a constant presence at her side. She learned to walk with a hand clenched firmly in her brother's fur.

Jörmungandr directed his own efforts outwards. He slithered through walls, between branches, monitoring what people were saying about his family and his sister.

Fenrir was a pack animal; being close, directly helping, was his nature. Jör, the serpent, was less tied to closeness, although only slightly so. He worked better from the outside, and felt that he could be more useful to his family there.

Angrboða met both decisions with strong approval and a fierce pride. Their sons had been raised well.

Owo

It took years for Odin to learn that his attempt had failed. A baby was easy to conceal, a toddler simple to distract. Indeed, it was almost a decade before word of the sweet, pink cheeked, half dead girl running through the Iron Wood.

At first, he couldn't believe it. He had cast the strongest curse he could possibly have managed alone, used enough power to exhaust him for weeks. That one could have survived it... The icy pit of fear in his stomach grew.

The child was more powerful than even he had feared. She could not be raised by her parents.

Owo

In the years since Hel's birth, the Iron Wood had become distrusting. Their relationships with other communities, other realms, were now laced with suspicion. Even the common folk of the Wood knew that their hagia had been attacked by magic. And when they learned that she and even her unborn child had triumphed, they became fiercely proud.

None begrudged their leader for hiding the truth; it was simple common sense to them.

And so when Odin came in disguise to visit the Wood and see for himself, he saw the realm he had feared would be; proud, aloof, and hostile to others. In his mind, it confirmed his choice.

Such people would never be Asgarð's allies. That this might be a result of his actions never even occurred to him. And when he reached the court... when he saw the sweet, clever, half-beautiful child spinning power through her fingers and into a rainbow of colours... he knew what he had to do.

Owo

The summons came in the form of an invasion. Thor himself stormed into the Wood in his chariot, fully armoured and magnificent, even without his yet-to-be-forged hammer at his side.

He demanded Loki's presence in a voice of thunder, which made the children of the realm quake in fear.

Loki himself could not believe it; he had been pleased to see his friend, an ally he had thought would be equally pleased for him. Thor's strong, imperious tone came as a total surprise. He simply didn't know how to react.

Angrboða did, rising tall and cold, power crackling around her.

Even with such an entrance, she didn't really believe that Odin meant them harm.

Loki had told her many times of Thor's bluffness, his unsophisticated ways. The half-giant was not known for courtesy.

And so the trial that awaited them came as a total shock.

Loki was not unduly surprised by the exclamations of disgust that greeted his children; he knew how poorly the Æsir treated difference.

He watched his children meet their first, but certainly not last, taste of intolerance, and his heart broke.

All three had known nothing but love and adoration in Jötunheim. None had any experience in the kind of reaction they faced here. Fenrir, now the size of a horse, was puzzled, and tried to shrink in on himself. He saw the wolves that lived in this realm, and did not understand why he was so different.

Jör bridled at the words he could hear, and moved faster, with purpose. If they would not care to know him, let them fear him.

But it was Hel's reaction that cut the deepest. She was such a happy child, greeting this new realm with an open hearted welcome and a smile on her lips. The smile faded into confusion, into hurt, when the ladies of the court covered their faces behind their sleeves, shuddering and refusing to even face the child that their own leader had so deformed.

Angrboða watched too, her anger rising with each step the family took into Gladsheim. The very walls began to quake with it, and Odin roared to his feet.

"You will not use your profane power here, giant!" The whole hall fell into a shocked silence. Loki stared at his blood brother, utterly disbelieving. They had been so close once, he had stood at Odin's side and helped him in all the ways he could.

Why was his brother not equally pleased for him?

Anyone with an ounce of magic felt the clanging of the wards as they slammed around the hagia. She bellowed in fury as her power was locked deep inside. She could break free, given time, but time was one thing which the family no longer had.

Odin's face settled into a stony, impassive mask when Thor slammed a massive hand onto Loki's shoulder, holding the trickster in place. His voice was cold, as though the man before him was a criminal, rather than friend and lover.

He did not even bother to look at Loki as he banished his children, casting Jörmungandr into the cold, crushing depths of Midgarð's oceans. The worst kind of home for a snake.

Hel, it seemed, might almost have gained lenience with her youth, but for the disgusted exclamations and cries of the Asynjur at the sheer thought of sharing their realm with her. Tears pricked the corners of his daughter's eyes, and her hands clenched into fists as scores of voices called her monster, filth, unclean.

Her own power began to stir as her mother's had, but so far from the realm that tied her to it, it could not be realized. She screamed as she was seized by guards, snatched away from her parents, and Angrboða screamed in return, railing futilely against the power which bound her.

All was for nought, though, as Heimdall himself carried the young girl down, to be cast into the realm of darkness and death. This done, Odin finally turned his one eye on his brother, still standing in shocked silence in Thor's grip.

"You will never see them again," he declared, his voice more gentle now.

He personally could not see how Loki could love such children, could happily call them his own. But the devastation on the trickster's face made it clear that he did.

In that last moment, Odin's own heart weakened a little; he nodded to Fenrir, shocked and rooted to the spot. "He will remain here. You will not speak to him. You will not care for him."

Such was the empty hearted mercy of the Allfather.

Already he suspected that this was the wolf which would be his death. He could see its echoes growing in Fenrir's eyes. For a second's span he wondered if he had brought it upon himself... and dismissed the thought.

Everything he did was for the good of his family. Loki would understand. Angrboða, on the other hand, roared in defiance, tears streaming down a normally impassive face.

"No! You will not have my children from me!" Dismay tinged her fury, for she knew that now she stood helpless, ambushed and trapped by the wily old man before her. Only then did Odin turn his gaze to her, lone eye becoming steely.

"And you will never darken these hallways again. I cast a curse that should you come back here, should I ever see you with the spawn you bore or the man who gave them, they will die in flames, your blood burning them from within and without." His voice rose, ringing in the hallways and shaking the whole realm with power as he called it up, and as the last syllable clanged into silence Angrboða vanished, returned to her realm with one last scream of pain and rage.

In the complete silence that followed, Odin turned once more to face Loki. His voice softened, gentled, and for the first time he spoke as if to a friend. "I hope that one day you understand that I did this for your sake." Loki stared at the old man in shocked disgust for a long moment, then with a supreme effort of will he wrenched himself from Thor's hands.

"Of course, ~my lord~," he spat, the words acid in the air as he turned and stormed from the hall. He had never before understood just how far Odin would go in his terror of prophecy. He had never realized that his bond to this place would become his noose. He would never forget again.

Owowowowowo

HK: … the end?


End file.
